Two Stories
by wolfern
Summary: Here are the stories of two main characters in To Kill a Mockingbird. The first is of a negro, unfairly convicted. The other is of a judge disappointed in his people.
1. Tom Robinson

**Black Thoughts**

**Well. . . Isn't _this _an interesting change from what I normally write? No? Not interesting? Nevermind.**

**Disclaimer: I can only _wish _myself so talented as to have actually written and own TKaM!**

**Warning: Character death.**

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><p>Me and the other prisoners walk slowly, silently around the prison yard, no quicker than we have to. There's no point; we barely exist outside our own thoughts. The wardens have succeeded in their task to 'beat the cheek out of us.'<p>

As we trudge along, I'm struck with a thought, like God's lightning bolt come to strike the sinners. No matter what I do, no matter whether I'm free or not, it makes no difference. If my appeal fails, I'm a dead man; but the way I'd be treated if I _were_ free is almost worse. Even I, a 'stupid black', can see that. From the moment Mayella Ewell first screamed, I was a dead man. Even though I haven't done it, I've been accused. Accused of raping a white woman.

Being accused of something is not how things are done in Maycomb. It stirs up trouble amongst the neighbours and upsets the women. If someone accuses you of doing something bad, it's almost worse than if you've actually done it. But at least then the hullabaloo is justified. When it comes to me, there is no justification – except for the relieving thought that I am black, and therefore must be the guilty person.

"Turn!" The prison warden shouts at us, spittle flying from his ugly mouth. Like scared and beaten dogs, we follow his order, our faces blank as usual. We've learnt not to show emotion. The slightest hint of a smile, and we are beaten half to death. The slightest grimace, and we're accused of not 'manning up'. Emotion here is a sin. We have no fighting spirit. Better we surrender our dignity and keep our lives than act as if we could ever have rights and throw away the right God gave us all – the right to breathe.

All of a sudden, I can take it no longer. God did not create us to bow down to fellow humans. Just because we are different colours on the outside doesn't mean we are better or worse than any other person. The rage flows through me, lighting a fire within my soul. I feel hate towards the Ewells, hate so blinding and strong it almost hurts to think of them. I also feel love. Love for my children and wife, who have supported me though I am not whole. But anger arises in me, driving out all my other emotions. I feel bitter frustration and disappointment at the cruelty of men. Why are these men so blind? Why do they not see that they are disobeying God's will? Why do they not see that what they are doing is _Wrong_?

My mind is filled with these thoughts. They crowd around my head, making it hard to think. Is there any point in living? I cannot make things better. I have brought shame to my family. If I die, my wife will be able to make a new life without me.

I offer a silent prayer to God, asking for His advice. Would it be better for me to go out fighting, trying to make a difference, or to go out quietly, with no one to notice? We round the final corner and I get the answer.

Like a sign from God, our supervisor turns away. He is staring suspiciously at another prisoner. I make a break for it. I run towards the fence, already leaping up to climb it. The first bullet hits me hard, like a punch to my back. I fall. I hear the shouts of the wardens and the other prisoners. Some are angry, some of them encouraging.

I cannot see them, nor can I hear the roaring of the guns. I cannot see anything but the blood, red blood, seeping into the dust, so dry and brown, around me. Everything has gone black as my skin.

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	2. Judge John Taylor

**Two's Company**

****NOTE: This was by my beta. ****

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><p>I leant back into my favourite armchair. It was a cool night, but the fire crackling in the hearth kept the house warm. The wife was practising her Sunday-night church ritual, leaving me with Ann Taylor, our overweight beagle, for company. We both enjoy this routine. Not because we don't love each other – Annie and I are extremely close, despite what everyone seems to think. Our love hasn't lessened, it's matured – like I hope Maycomb's judicial system does, but that's law.<p>

Resting my feet on the table, I let my mind drift back two years, when I had sat in this same chair, on a night similar to this one. Engrossed in the writings of Bob Taylor, a great writer if ever there was, I had forgotten to let Ann Taylor out – or so I thought. When I ambled over to the back porch, the screen door was already open and swinging.

Immediately I became wary. As a judge, I never assume without proof. The screen door was dangling on its hinges, and that was all I had. It could have meant a good many things – perhaps Ann had somehow managed to open it. Maybe a robber lurked – or I could've simply forgotten to close the door. I remember running these options through my head as I peered cautiously outside.

A familiar noise awoke me from my venture into the past. Ann looked up dolefully. _Food_, her eyes implored. _I want food._ Ann always wanted food, even if she had just been fed. It was one of two reasons for her paunchy state. The other? That was more lenience on our part. She'd always been like this – that's why my cousin foisted her onto us. The name 'Ann' stuck after I joked she resembled Annie. Regardless, Ann'd grown on me.

"I want a cigar," I informed her gravely, and searched my pockets. This remembering was almost as tiring as reading Nietzsche – another great writer, though I prefer Bob Taylor. Having located the cigar, it went into my mouth. My teeth worked at the unyielding substance. I've become too accustomed to it to stop completely. Annie doesn't mind smoking but hates the chewing, but I've made sure she hasn't noticed the hacking morning cough that racks my body.

Anyhow, I had been scrutinising my dull back porch when a slightly less dull-looking shadow caught my eye. It wasn't doing anything; just hovering on the corner of my house. It wasn't tall, or particularly thickset, or even that sinister – but when you find a suspicious shadow lurking for no good reason on the corner of your house . . . Well, I'd say you'd be just as apprehensive of it as I was, especially so soon after the Tom Robinson fiasco. That verdict was disgraceful – but that's the law.

The shadow could have been anything. However, I'm trained to make logical conclusions. I reviewed the facts. One; the screen door was open. I was almost sure I had not left it open, nor did I believe Ann could have, even in a fit of extreme willpower. Two; a shady shadow was apparently very interested in the corner of my house. I was rather sceptical of it being a tree – even if it had been, it would have had to be an incredibly intelligent tree to cross the road. That, in itself, was questionable. Therefore, it had seemed obvious that the shadow belonged to a person.

I never did find out who that person was. My wife had returned home to find me with my rarely used shotgun loaded on my lap. It hasn't been used since that night, and it's unlikely to be used since Bob Ewell fell on his knife.

I hate to say he deserved it, because no man deserves death, not even a black man – especially not Tom – but I never grieved. I can't mourn a man who refuses honesty and humanity. Or one I could charge with trespassing – that's the law.

**The End**

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